


Holy By Proximity

by cowboyapologist



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: ...Kinda, Allergies, Established Relationship, Footnotes, M/M, Sickfic, Sneezing, aziraphale is an easily flustered top, crowley doesn't do well with incense, i've got a new hyperfixation for the first time in forever and now you have to deal with that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-29 15:42:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19403368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboyapologist/pseuds/cowboyapologist
Summary: “Hh… Snff, Aziraphale,” says Crowley, headily. The demon seems to have a penchant for saying his name in a tone that makes it sound like a prayer, and he’s perfected it over the years. Aziraphale swallows and takes an extra second to sit beside him and collect his thoughts.“What is it, dear?”





	Holy By Proximity

**Author's Note:**

> hi yes hello just a few quick things!
> 
> 1\. this is a sneeze fic, so if that's not what you came for... back away slowly  
> 2\. i couldn't figure out how to link the footnotes properly, so you'll have to scroll all the way down and back each time :c it's not that long of a fic, though, don't worry!  
> 3\. the summary alone is way hornier than the rest of it, i swear. it was just my favorite part

The bells above the door of Aziraphale’s bookshop ring brightly, and Aziraphale looks up to find two familiar faces entering. “Ah! Hello, what a pleasant surprise!”

The patrons who have just entered the shop are a Mrs. and Mrs. O’Sullivan, a lovely elderly Irish couple who used to come by quite frequently. Though they sometimes picked up more personal reading material, most of their purchases were for the old Catholic church that was just out of town. There was a library in the church, and Mrs. and Mrs. O’Sullivan made bi-weekly trips to all the bookshops they could think of in order to find more books to fill up the library. At some point Aziraphale stopped seeing them. He hoped solemnly that nothing bad had happened, but that turned out to be unnecessary, because here they both are in perfect health. Fancy that.

“Come to restock the library?” Aziraphale asks cheerily as the two come in from the rain. The tall Mrs. O’Sullivan bends dramatically in her stature to place a cardboard box at his feet, looking a bit sad.

“‘Fraid not, dearie,” she says. Her wife casts him a wistful glance.

“Seems the library is shuttin’ down. They’re relocatin’ all the unused books an’ left us this box to deliver back to ye.” Mrs. O’Sullivan nods along sadly, then squints at the box.

“Not sure they kept very good track of which ones belonged here, though, Mr. Fell,” she says, gesturing at a few sticky-looking children’s books. “We thought we’d bring ‘em all the same.” 

“I’m sorry to hear about the library,” Aziraphale says sincerely, then picks up the box. “But it’s very nice to see you both again.”

“You as well, Mr. Fell,” says Mrs. O’Sullivan, patting his shoulder. It takes a bit of effort because she is incredibly short. “Well, we’ve got more boxes t’deliver. Be seeing ye!”

Just as quick as they’ve come in, Mrs. and Mrs. O’Sullivan are leaving the shop. The bells chime to signal their exit, and Aziraphale moves the box to a spot behind the couch. It joins other boxes Aziraphale promises he’ll get through, and he returns to his seat. Picking up the book he was in the middle of with one hand and his still-warm cocoa with the other, he settles back into the seat cushion and resumes his reading.

He’s gotten a bit more than two thirds through the book and three thirds through his cocoa when the bells ring once again, pulling him out of his own head. He glances out the window, sees it’s dark. Rain still lashes against the glass. It must be downright miserable out there. “Ah, we’re closed, sorry,” he calls, sitting up and trying to get a look at who’s at the door.

“S’jussst me,” says Crowley as he saunters in1, dripping rain all over the floor. 

“Hello, Crowley, you’re dripping.”

“I am. It’s disssgustingly cold outssside,” he complains, hugging himself even as he shakes the water off of him. Aziraphale smiles. 

“Do you want me to make you some tea?”

Crowley is pulling the blanket off of the back of Aziraphale’s seat. He wraps it around himself and collapses onto the couch with a shudder. “Yesss,” he mumbles, and Aziraphale chooses not to point out the hissing.

By the time the kettle’s been warmed with an encouraging glance2 and both of their preferred cups of tea have been fixed (earl grey for Aziraphale and Irish breakfast with an absurdly unholy amount of cream and sugar for Crowley), he’s shed the blanket and has curled up on one side of the couch. Aziraphale is about to be pleased that he’s looking more like himself, but then Crowley lifts his glasses to rub his eyes.

“Feeling tired, Crowley?” he asks as he hands him his tea. The glasses fall unceremoniously back onto his nose as Crowley draws his hand back quickly. His expression twists guiltily like he’s been caught doing something particularly naughty, and he clears his throat. He takes the tea, then frowns, then clears his throat again.

“Just fine,” he murmurs, lifting the cup to his lips. Aziraphale frowns at him, even deeper when he wrinkles his nose and rubs his eyes again, this time more insistently.

“Do you need me to turn the heat up? If it’s the cold that’s bothering you…”

“No, it’s not that. Something’s…” He wrinkles his nose again, and again, then sets his tea down to curl a finger under his nose. “S-Something, is, uh…” He turns away from Aziraphale, taking a deep breath in, then-

“Hah’TSShuh!”

“Goodness! Bless you!”

“HhHuh… H’TShhuh!” Crowley gives a thick sniffle, eyes searching the room.

“Are you alright?” 

“Hh… Snff, Aziraphale,” says Crowley, headily. The demon seems to have a penchant for saying his name in a tone that makes it sound like a prayer, and he’s perfected it over the years. Aziraphale swallows and takes an extra second to sit beside him and collect his thoughts.

“What is it, dear?”

“Have you got a, uh,” he sniffles, wrinkles his nose again as he gestures uselessly in the air. “You know, for-”

“Oh! One moment.” Aziraphale rummages in his pocket, then hands him a handkerchief. 

Crowley rolls his eyes as he brings it up to his nose. “Does everything you own have to be tartan?” he groans.3 “It hasn’t been fashionable or, at the very least, _good to look at_ in ages.”

“Well, it seems to be doing you well at the moment.” He smiles. “Bless you,” he adds when Crowley starts to hitch into the handkerchief again.

“Hah’TSSchuh! Hh… Huhh…! Huhh _HTSSCHuh!_ Nnh, ‘Ziraphale…”

“Yes?” Crowley shakes his head and coughs into the handkerchief.

“Never mind. _Satan,_ I keep- hhuh-” He puts the handkerchief down to scrub his hands over his entire face with an impatient growl.

“I wonder what’s gotten into you,” Aziraphale says softly, moving Crowley’s hands away and pushing his glasses up so he can examine his face. His slitted eyes are starting to water, and his skin is beginning to go pink and blotchy, particularly under his eyes and nose. In this moment Crowley blinks at him with such unmasked vulnerability that Aziraphale unconsciously puts a hand over his heart. His nose wrinkles with a damp, soft sniffle, and Aziraphale lets him go so he can duck away. 

“H-Huh… Ihh, huh…” The desperate look he casts Aziraphale is the only thing he can think of later to explain why he reaches over and pokes the sharp tip of Crowley’s nose. It has its intended effect, and Crowley can barely get the handkerchief up in time. 

“Hhuh’TSCHHuh! Hah’TSCHHUH!”

“Bless you.”

“Hhh- _hhAziraphale…”_ There he goes again. Aziraphale bites his own cheek to refrain from commenting, if only because he sounds so pleading.4 “Hh’TSSH! Huh’TSHHuh!” Crowley sniffs, and scowls, and presses the cloth to his nose with an undignified half-cough half-sigh.

Aziraphale touches the back of his hand to Crowley’s cheek. When he blinks in surprise, the angel explains, “I’m feeling you for a fever.”

“I was fine before I got here. Besides the rain, and all, this is all coming on j-just… j _uhhh_ st… Hh’TSCHHuh!” A sniffle, another cough, and Aziraphale lowers his hand when he fails to find any fever.

“Is it dusty in here, do you think?”

“Oh, come on,” Crowley snarls from his place on the couch. “When have you ever heard of me being bothered by a bit of d-d-” He takes a moment to regain his composure, rubbing Aziraphale’s handkerchief against the pink underside of his nose. _“Ugh,_ bit of dust?”

“Hm. Perhaps you’re getting old.” The glare Crowley shoots him is undermined by his watering eyes, and Aziraphale only smiles at him in a manner that, had Crowley not known any better,5 he would think is smug. He sniffles, sinking into the couch and effectively switching from a lazy lounge to a miserable lump. 

“More tea?”

“I couldn’t,” Crowley mumbles, even though he very well could, but every time he moves the congestion in his head shifts around and makes his head pound, so no. Aziraphale seems to sense this, running a hand through his demon’s hair with a light scratch at his scalp. Crowley hums and shuts his eyes. Aziraphale notes that they’re becoming a bit swollen.

“Poor dear. I do wish I knew what was irritating you so much, so I could help.”

“Yeah, well.” Crowley coughs lightly, lifting a hand to scrub at his eyes. The angel catches his wrist with a disapproving frown and Crowley sighs. “So do I.” It’s at this time that the itch in his nose returns with a vengeance, and he turns his head towards the floor. “H-hhuh… _Huhh’TSCHHuh!_ Hah- HAH’TSCHhuh!”

“Bless you,” Aziraphale says pleasantly.

“Dammit, angel,” he finally hisses, “d-don’t do th _ahh… Hah’TSCHHuhh!”_

“Bless- Erm, uh… Are you alright?”

“Can’t sssay that,” he mumbles, sounding stuffier with each word. “Makesss me sssn- huhh-” He swallows. “Makes me itch.”

“What, just like that?” Crowley nods, finding the handkerchief again and blowing his nose rather pathetically. This makes Aziraphale think. If a simple “bless you” is enough to set Crowley off, maybe something in the shop is the culprit for his friend’s miserable condition. Something angelic. “Wait here.”

“Just leave me here to drown in my own bodily fluids, then,” Crowley moans as his angel stands and begins to rummage around in boxes behind the couch. Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

“For heaven’s sake, Crowley, I’m only moving four feet away, there’s no need to be so dramatic.”

Crowley hisses something under his breath. “What was that?” Aziraphale asks.

“Nothing, didn’t say anything.”6

Aziraphale goes back to his search, looking through the piles of books that had been donated to him recently. Most of them are books he’d known would sit wasting away had he not taken them in, rotting with mold and mildew and becoming infested with psocids. While this thought makes Aziraphale sad enough to accept the books, there really isn’t anything for him to do with them. They’re never his preferred type of book to begin with, let alone first editions of anything at all. He picks up a well-worn copy of something called _The Colour of Magic._ It doesn’t look like its contents are very scientifically accurate.

But it’s not actually the book Aziraphale is looking at; he eyes the box it’s in with a wary frown. On it, there’s a post-it note that reads in scrawling print, “For Mr. Fell, from the old church library.” There’s a smiley face at the bottom. _Of course,_ Aziraphale thinks. 

Simply being in a church doesn’t make things holy. If that were the case, you could put Crowley in a church, and instead of contracting burnt feet and a bout of nausea, he’d become as angelic as he was on the day he was created. The donated books sitting untouched on their shelves aren’t the problem. The problem is that when books sit untouched on their shelves in a church library, they’re also bound to come into contact with a few stray droplets of holy water every now and again, and (this was the key here), become slightly infused with incense every day.7

Aziraphale tucks the book under his arm and returns to the couch. Crowley, free from the other’s supervision, is digging his heels into his eyes, irritated tears threatening to fall down his cheeks.8 Aziraphale tuts loudly at him, and he lowers his hands to stare petulantly.

“What?” he snaps impatiently, face flushed with both exertion and, Aziraphale suspects, embarrassment. 

“Sorry about this, but I need to be sure,” Aziraphale says, voice laden with guilt, and before Crowley can ask what the heaven he’s talking about, he holds the book right under Crowley’s nose. The effect is immediate, and Crowley is scrambling backwards as far as the confines of Aziraphale’s couch will let him.

“H-Huhh- Wh-W _Huhhh…_ What’sthah-aH-AH’ **_TSSCHUH!_ ** Huhh’ **_AHTSCHHuhh!_ ** Hhhuh _hohh_ fuck _me…_ Hh’nnGKKtshh! Hh’GKKsh!”

Aziraphale, who had at this point quickly tossed the book aside and miracled the offending box a safe distance away, winces. “Oh, Crowley, don’t hold them in like that. You’ll only make yourself-”

“Hh- SSshhut up- huh- Huh’ _TSCHHIU!_ HhUH’ _SCHIUU!”_ With the strain on his throat and congestion blocking his sinuses, Crowley’s sneezes had taken on a much more vocal and somewhat squeakier sound. “HuH’ **_AHTSCHHiuu!_ **” In fact, one could almost call them-

“Adorable,” Aziraphale says as he sits beside his ailing demon. Crowley’s eyes widen as much as they can, given his current predicament, and he gives Aziraphale a rather undignified hiss.

_“Bloody ador-uhhh…_ ” His chest rises and falls rapidly, and Aziraphale feels inclined to place a soothing hand at his back, rubbing gentle circles. Crowley pretends not to enjoy this deeply, cupping his hands over the lower half of his face. “H-Huhh… Uh…!”

“Just one more, dear, you’ve got to get it all out of your sys-”

At this moment Crowley wrenches forward, jackknifing at the waist in a most uncomfortable way, and finally gives into a desperate, violent sneeze. Any and all blessings have been properly expelled from his body, and not a moment too soon. Crowley slumps forward, easily caught by Aziraphale’s soft hands. 

“Bless- ah, salud.” Crowley, near panting, looks up at him, glasses strewn from his face long ago. He arches an eyebrow, not quite ready to use his voice.

“It means good health,” Aziraphale informs him, far too brightly in Crowley’s opinion. “It’s Spanish, and-”

Crowley shushes him, leaning his forehead against Aziraphale’s chest and shutting his eyes. “I don’t care, angel,” he rasps, and Aziraphale declines to comment on how close his demon is cuddling to him. He miracles him another handkerchief, this one fresh.9 Crowley blows his nose one last time, head lolling against Aziraphale afterwards with a few scratchy coughs.

“I’m terribly sorry about all that, dear,” Aziraphale repeats, stroking Crowley’s hair. “Donations from the church, you see.”

“Sure you didn’t just want to see me get disgusting on your couch?” Crowley rasps, finding his voice terribly hoarse. 

“You are _not_ disgusting.” Aziraphale kisses Crowley’s forehead, which has grown warm in all the mess of his adverse reaction.

“Oh, right.” He says it like an afterthought. “You think me barely catching my breath and oozing… oozing stuff out of my face is _adorable._ It’d really please you if I sneezed on you every time I came over, eh?”

This time it’s Aziraphale’s turn to blush bright pink, as Crowley swipes the handkerchief against his sore nose. “ _No,_ it wouldn’t.” Seeing Aziraphale with his feathers ruffled10 makes Crowley feel the tiniest bit better already. “But yes, you are adorable when you, ah. Uhm.” Crowley raises an eyebrow. The other one, this time.

“Never mind. Are you feeling better?”

“Much,” Crowley sighs. There’s a glint in those serpentine eyes of his that tells Aziraphale discreetly, _Don’t think I’m letting that one go, angel._ Despite himself, Aziraphale smiles.

“Tired, though,” Crowley continues. Aziraphale notices him pushing more and more weight onto the angel, stretching his limbs out and pushing him into a prone position.

“I can get you to bed if you need to rest.” Crowley stretches farther until Aziraphale is laying on his back, a very sleepy and suddenly very heavy Crowley situated comfortably upon his chest.

“No, no,” he murmurs, nuzzling his face into Aziraphale’s neck. “No… Here’s just fine, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale hums, a low rumbling sound that makes Crowley shiver pleasantly. “Good night, Crowley.”

* * *

1\. Crowley usually saunters. What he is doing now is more of a jaunty but twitchy stumble, interspersed with miserable shivers.

  1. While the demon finds threatening his plants to be the most effective way of keeping them bright and beautiful, Aziraphale finds that some gentle and persuasive encouragement is enough to get most little household things done, such as heating water and cleaning dishes. No real miracles needed.



  1. No. Aziraphale simply puts an effort into wearing and brandishing it a bit more than usual when Crowley is around.



  1. While in reality, Crowley sounds pleading because he genuinely is, Aziraphale thinks that he’s doing it on purpose, for very, very unholy reasons. He ought to teach him a lesson about that at a later time.



  1. Crowley _does_ know better, and knows that the smile Aziraphale offers him now is approximately 68% fond, 16.4% amused, and 15% sympathetic. The remaining 0.6%, however, is just slightly out of reach for Crowley, and he wonders what it could be. 



  1. This was untrue. Crowley hissed, “That’s four feet too many,” but you would never be able to get him to admit this.



  1. The specific offender here is the lasting essence of chunks of the resin myrrh, derived from the _Commiphora myrrha_ tree. A staple in all incense burned in Catholic churches, and always guaranteed to give poor Crowley a runny nose. 



  1. It’s universally considered unwise to threaten Crowley. His demonic allergy doesn’t seem to care very much.



  1. But still disgustingly (in Crowley’s opinion at least) tartan.



  1. Not his actual feathers, of course. On the very rare occasion that Crowley does get to see his dearest friend’s wings, the first thing he does is get permission to touch them (because not even a demon would cross that line) and the second thing he does is get to grooming them. How anyone could go about with their wings all messy and untamed like that, stray feathers everywhere, is beyond him.




End file.
